Noctisardor Bypass Whenever all my friends ask, all I say is

being extremely vague

He was not here to stay this time. He told himself this, would force himself to leave. He was not healed yet.

And he wanted to consult with other healers. And he wanted to get his stashes of seaweed wondering if the red would help or hurt. He wasn't sure.

He thought of the moonwoman wolf on the mountain, the other of the spear who had smelled like herbs. But he did not know if his skill would be enough this time.

He would come back permanently someday, but not today. For now he was simply shoring up the herbs, and tinctures. Pulling the weeds from the garden. It hurt him to see it so broken, but he shouldn't be surprised.

Etienne went to work. Singing a sea shanty under his breath, then a love song softly crooned in creole. He realized with a small laugh his paws were wider, as were his sides. So he didn't fit into the furrows as well. He was healthy weight and size now.

But his small laugh was short lived at the current place and time dawned on him.

He hated him. He hated him down to the scars on his ears, the smarmy expression on his face, down to every last shaft of black fur that bladed his rangy hide. Anselm could not say what authored such contempt when he thought of Amadeo. Maybe it was the first time they met - how the man had been so -- what was the word?

Prickly. As if Anselm himself didn't coin that phrase!

He stormed to Sequoia's tree, watching the puppies with detachment typical of his parenting style as of late. But a voice -- a distinctly familiar voice -- began to pass through the trees. Anselm got up with a start, fur on end as he stalked towards the edge of the river where the gardens were.

He froze as he saw the shape of the man he was not ready to see. Not yet. Bound between the urge to sink teeth into Etienne's haunches in reprisal for all the hurt he'd inspired in Anselm, and the urge to just turn away and wash his hands forever, Anselm stood in limbo.